Tuesday, 29 November 2011
Monday, 14 November 2011
Wednesday, 9 November 2011
Today is 9/11.
Thoughts in class-from 2007-08 I guess.
The most fascinating thing, by far, has to be the irrelevant things people say:
1. In class when a teacher explains a concept and a student essentially re-phrases and re-states the same. I mean…oooo what did that accomplish? But he’s nodding with approval-oh. You said it, my child.
2. Ask a question, receive an answer, ignore the answer. Whaa? Why’d ya ask!
3. Things like this critical essay-wasted words, wasted energy…why!
Sometimes it annoys me so much that people blabber uselessly, but it isn’t possible for me at least, to live without this background noise. Cannot work without it. Cannot think without it.
Silence preoccupies my mind, distracting it from any coherence.
There are these days of utter silence in class-the exams approach. It’s unusual. Scary.Change-afraid of.
I don’t know why anything unusual normally sets these humans off. Why? Why be afraid of something you don’t even know? Shouldn’t ignorance be blissful, and thereby give you courage?
Well, sometimes I don’t have any thoughts. Thoughtless human being. Woe is me. Woe is me. Accursed creature of the day. Unable to walk, awake at night. Living amongst those sickeningly like me, and sickeningly unlike.
My head is rolling, I guess this is how being doped feels like—disconnected-Don’t see the pleasure.
Monday, 7 November 2011
Seize the day- giving minimum credit to the posterior.
Of course that’s not what it really means. Latin is Greek to us.
Bad poetry begets bad poetry. Yes, I know. When we were chill’en we had this program where you could preset a few things and it would write poetry for you. Very typical stuff.
I am so glad to have you as a friend,
We shall be together even to the end.
You are my friend and I am blessed,
For no one can play as well a game of Chess.
You get the drift. Bullshit. And I hope mine’s not as bad (but I read ‘one night love’ again, and oh-god-i-wanna-delete!). So here is some nice stuff which reminds me of some lovely people…one of them lovely people is Pablo.
Because of you, in gardens of blossoming flowers I ache from the perfumes of spring.
I have forgotten your face, I no longer remember your hands;
how did your lips feel on mine?
Because of you, I love the white statues drowsing in the parks, the white statues that have neither voice nor sight.
I have forgotten your voice, your happy voice;
I have forgotten your eyes.
Like a flower to its perfume, I am bound to my vague memory of you. I live with pain that is like a wound;
if you touch me, you will do me irreparable harm.
Your caresses enfold me, like climbing vines on melancholy walls.
I have forgotten your love, yet I seem to glimpse you in every window.
Because of you, the heady perfumes of summer pain me; because of you, I again seek out the signs that precipitate desires: shooting stars, falling objects.
Friday, 4 November 2011
Delhi is that bitch that’s so easy to hate. You know the one. All straight hair, pouty lips and perfect figure. She’s the one you’d like to believe is an absolute belongs-in-ekta’s-shows-with-evil-background-name-humming-music Bitch. She’s not.
I grew up in Delhi. And while she may not be the nice village aunty offering you chai, she’s definitely no Bitch. Delhi has a few things that make it a city worth living in:
1. It gives you balls of steel.
2. It helps you appreciate the Indian-sastaap that is ubiquitous in India
3. It gives you days of frozen winter that make you want to curl up with chai, and just stare at the pollution ridden smoggy vague sun.
4. It teaches you, better than any other teacher, that you never NEVER judge a book by the cover. The punju boy with the rowdy smart mouth, is gonna grow up to be that helpful surd uncle who offered you the window seat to save you from the lech rubbing his crotch on your shoulder.
5. It gives you the balcony seat to viewing Indians and multi-cultural growth.
6. It teaches you that not every person who cannot speak in perfect english and perfect diction is an inferior rat not worth your time.
More on this one some other day. More on the city that defines me, and that’s so easy to ditch in the search for south Indian acceptance and appreciation. I am from delhi, though I may be rooted in Kerala.
>bakatkaari ADR not happening it seems :D <
One: Bak-atkaar: force feeding your bullshit (bakchod) to someone. Used as in “Most Indian bloggers engage in frequent bak-atkaar of their readers”
Bak-chudai: listening to someone’s bakchod. Mostly enjoying it as well. As in “kya bak-chudai karta hai yaar!” or (as contributed by the lovely Ms. J, "tumhari bakchudai mein jo mazze hai woh aur kahan")
Two: fuck ive forgotten the second observation of note. Brilliant. This is why I’m not a good blogger. Now we know.
Thursday, 3 November 2011
Our parents lied to us.
Like all of our parents told us of the men they thought were great, Martin Luther King, Gandhi etc. But our attempts to emulate them-boycotting tests due to unfairness of the teachers, talking back because we genuinely think authorities are unfair, unwillingness to pay a fine because it seems to be a bribe instead of accepting due punishment for having cheated - have always been unappreciated. My parents scolded me saying “you don’t have to be the hero”….well then why did you tell me about these greats and why tell me that this is your idea of “uprightness”…why show me a world of honesty and then demand to know why I had to try and be a hero.
Another lie-The lesson of the Scrabble game.
My parents played scrabble with us, back in the impressionable years. There was one rule to the game (apart from The rules of the game), and it was-don’t overthink, don’t save up your letters for a later moment…jus play, make your move. And well, for most of my years that has been the life lesson I lived by…don’t over think things, make your move and make your peace with it, just play the game. Now they ask me what my plans for my future are, where I intend to be, what I intend to be. Ofcourse, the simplicity of it is that my plans are always subject to a million contingencies but for NOW-my plan will give me security, the (hopeful) knowledge that I know whats coming next.
These are permissible hypocrisies I feel. Things parents are allowed to say and then unsay, because they help you. They help me. I still choose to live by the lesson of the Scrabble. And I will always try to be a hero.